


Architecture of Choice

by Dyed_Red



Series: Straws Snapping in the Aether [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fuck Or Die, M/M, Post-Gadreel (Supernatural), Season/Series 09, angst that somehow turns soft and a bit schmoopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26192818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyed_Red/pseuds/Dyed_Red
Summary: He could punch Dean still, could fight this. Could claw his way out the door and assert his existence as an individual, as more than SamandDean. Could kid himself a little more.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Straws Snapping in the Aether [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902175
Comments: 27
Kudos: 90





	Architecture of Choice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovetincture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/gifts).



It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, is the thing. It’s not like it hasn’t happened under a variety of ill-conceived and unpleasant circumstances, some definitely worse than what he’s got going on now. It’s not like –

He knows it’s stupid, but Sam can’t help the tightness in his gorge when he contemplates what’s gotta happen between now and sun-up. He doesn’t want this – not now, not like this, not with –

“Dean.”

His brother’s head snaps over from the driver’s side at his tone of voice and Sam can already see the concerned crease around his eyebrows in his periphery. He refuses to look full-on, clenches his knuckles on his thighs.

“Sam? You okay?”

He tightens his jaw, shakes it minutely. Can feel his brother’s gaze like a band while he keeps his own eyes glued to the road, sun hinting toward the horizon and glare on the asphalt, half hour outside Lebanon. He waits. Feels the shift in the air when Dean’s visual assessment of him starts slotting the pieces into place.

“It got you.” Surprised, certain. Sam exhales, frustrated with himself.

“Apparently.”

“ _When_?”

He looks at his hands and turns them over for inspection, underside and up. The skin over knuckles is cracked, has been cracked, open wounds to infect. They’re inflamed now, a sure a sign as any. Dean whistles.

“No shit.”

“Eyes on the road.”

The car swerves just enough to notice as Dean stops listing them toward the shoulder, corrects and speeds up again, less distracted.

“You feeling it?”

Sweat at the back of his neck, dampening the hairs, making his collar uncomfortable. His pits, his lower back, behind his knees, between his toes. The tell-tale throbbing hasn’t started yet but it will by sundown. There’s a faintly bitter and floral taste in the back of his throat, oleander he knows from the research. Not ingested so his stomach will be fine, but his heart will start to palpitate after midnight, overheat his body. Dead by dawn.

“A little.”

The Impala picks up speed. Twenty minutes, then, if Dean’s going to push it, and then stop on the way to gas and liquor up before the bunker. Under an hour till home. The sun will set at 7:06pm, they’ll be back before then, or close to.

Dean shows no signs of stopping in town and Sam clears his throat.

“No way. Gotta get you back and – ”

“And do this sober? It’ll take 5 minutes, Dean. It’s not even sundown.”

There’s a noise of protest in his throat but Sam’s chest unclenches when the car slows and he pulls into the Gas ‘N Sip. Sam’s out in a heartbeat into the relative cool of the August air, which isn’t cool at all, really. He shrugs off his jacket, then his flannel, gasses her up while Dean’s inside flirting with the cashier. His brother glances from inside to check on him and Sam turns his head toward the sunset, toward the bunker, and ignores the shift in Dean’s expression for the split second he can see it before it’s gone from his line of sight. He doesn’t need this shit. Doesn’t need Dean’s guilt, layered on him thick as the mosquitos are choking up the air out here. Doesn’t need the kicked puppy look, the uncertainty.

Fuck, Sam doesn’t need any of this, not now.

He pulls the nozzle out, spends another minute in the breeze while Dean pays for their gas, slides back into his seat before Dean can comment on his appearance, the sweat making its presence known on his clothes.

A protein bar lands in his lap as Dean slides in. No comment. Sam sighs, stomach turns. It’s probably a good idea. There’s no chance they’re gonna have dinner, that he’s gonna be able to stomach eating before –

“Doesn’t have to be you, y’know. If you don’t want – ”

“Don’t be stupid.” Dean’s voice brooks no argument and Sam feels the beginnings of a headache throbbing between his temples. Might be a migraine. Maybe he’s had a headache this whole time – it’s hard for him to know, some days, where and when pain starts. Probably how he went so many hours of the drive without realizing he’d got incubus venom in his knuckles.

He doesn’t eat the protein bar, doesn’t let Dean catch his gaze about it either, exiting the car at the liquor store. Picks out his own favorites, Dean’s be damned, without a second glance at his brother. Clancy’s working this evening and Sam spares him a smile, at least, when he gets out his wallet to pay.

“Big weekend plans?” the man asks, harmless as ever. Sam tries to hide the twist in his gut with a smile.

“Just stocking up.”

“You boys take care.”

Dean jumps in, because he always does, with an easy smile and casual swagger, like he’s unaffected. Hell, maybe he is. “Always do, Clancy my man. You have a good one.”

Like it’s that easy. Sam’s scowl is hard to quell, dropping the liquor in the back. Dean claps him on the shoulder as he passes, whips his hand back as if burnt.

“You’re burning up.”

No shit. Sam closes the trunk with more force than strictly necessary. He’s still in just a tee, not exactly hiding anything.

“Yeah.”

The drive to the bunker is stilted, the sun long-since below the tree line. Its already started, a warm honey-like glaze in his stomach, a not-altogether-unpleasant throb. He’ll be hard soon, unable to stop it. The corners of his mouth turn down, gaze switching to the tree-lined drive, familiar in a way most drives in his life haven’t been. He’s seen most of America and more than most of its highways, but never stayed in one place quite so long, not since –

California doesn’t really bear thinking about right now.

“You’re gonna be alright, Sam.”

Obviously. God, he just wants this night to be over already, before it’s begun.

“Sam?”

He rolls his head back toward the front, watches the bunker come into view. “It’s fine, Dean. We don’t need to talk about it.”

He can feel concern oozing at him from the other side of the car, suffocating, but that’s not really his problem. Dean can deal with his crap. Dean can deal with –

Dean dealing with shit that wasn’t his to decide is why this is even an issue, now. Dean making decisions for him, lying to him, controlling his goddamn life and his choices and –

He grabs out the good crystal as soon as they’re in the library, puts the two tumblers out and it’s a generous pour for each of them. Ice would be nice but honestly, he doesn’t care.

“Sammy – ”

He slams his glass down, empty. Rye whiskey, harsher than the bourbon Dean favors.

“Jesus, Sam. Maybe we should – ”

“What, Dean? Slow down and talk about this? Like we consult up front about all our decisions, right? No. I’m going to get drunk, and you’re going to – ” it catches in his throat, tumbles out like a croak – “fuck me.”

An inhale. Dean, stepping into his space, next to him, heat radiating from him but nothing like Sam’s skin, his jacket and flannel draped over the back of one of the chairs. Dean lifts his glass, doesn’t sip so much as swig, but only takes half of what Sam did, amber swirling in the translucent, light-refracting diamond cut pattern.

“You know I – ”

“I know.”

A sigh. Dean moves away, drags a hand over his face. “Dammit Sam. Just talk to me, would you?”

He’d laugh but it would come out wry and wrong and be another source of ire between them. Instead he pours more into his tumbler.

“What exactly do you want me to say, Dean? That I’m sorry I fucked up? That this won’t change anything? That I won’t judge you for liking – "

“Fuck’s sake,” Dean sounds tired. “You really wanna have a go? _Now_?”

Sam looks at his knuckles, pink-red and gently throbbing like the rest of him now. He can feel the beads of sweat sliding down his back, July in Tuscaloosa kind of humid-hot. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He doesn’t know how to make it any different. Kevin’s blood was spilled a few feet from where he’s standing and the last time he and Dean were like this was…

_It’s okay, Sam. I’ve got you._

_It’s embarrassing, shameful, how much he’s relying on Dean, how much he needs him. Hasn’t needed him like this since he was little, hasn’t been so weak but the Trials are taking more out of him than he knew he had to give. Wrapped up in blankets, fed with promises – threats – of spoon feeding if he doesn’t feed himself at least a little. Vision blurring so bad he can’t shower without sitting, can’t hunt in this state, can’t –_

_Can’t take care of himself. But he doesn’t need to. Because Dean’s taking care of him._

_It’s okay Sam._

_It’s not, not really, but he whines high in his throat and presses his nose into Dean’s neck anyway. Dean’s hand, soapy and wet slides over his dick and his hips hump up just a little into it. Hot water cascades around them in the shower stall and it’s been too long since anyone did this for him, too long since he did it for himself. The last person who had a hand on him other than himself was Amelia and that – that doesn’t bear thinking about. Not in the wake of his brother’s jealousy, his brother’s all-consuming love, his need to protect –_

_That’s it Sammy. Just let go. I’ve got you._

Sam tilts his head back, memory washing past him. More things they don’t talk about. Because he’d thought – he’d spent years – _years_ – carving out independence, autonomy, the ability to make his own choices that weren’t _Dean’s_ choices. Creating space for himself to exist in the world as Sam, not as SamandDean. Then life came along and bulldozed all the walls he'd built, in some cases a bit literally. Memories of the Cage destroyed his ability to get by without Dean, to get by on his own, and the Trials broke him down to his barest essentials. He let Dean in, let himself trust Dean because he had to, because he couldn’t trust himself ( _stone number one_ ), and he thought Dean returned the favor.

He thought wrong. And now he has to let Dean in again. Let Dean in or be dead by sunrise. Which isn't even an option really, which isn't anything at all if he thinks about it. Because even if he was selfish enough to choose death, well –

Dean shoved an angel inside his skin to stop him dying. Holding him down –

It sours in his throat with the whiskey aftertaste.

“Maybe I should head back to town.”

Dean turns to him, eyes demanding and angry enough that Sam meets his gaze, narrows his own.

“You can’t be serious.”

He lifts his chin, looks down at his brother. He wasn’t, not really, but now he kind of is. “You think I wouldn’t?”

“No Sam – I think you would just to spite me because you’re an asshole.”

“ _I’m_ the asshole?” his chest is hot, puffed out with six inches of space between them, waiting to see if this escalates to blows. “You’ve got no idea – ”

“Yeah, I do Sam! I’ve got every damn idea but I’m not gonna let some random creep fuck my brother just because you’re a little pissed off at me still.”

He scoffs, shakes his head and takes a step back because otherwise it’s a swing.

“You don’t get to decide for me, Dean.”

“So you’d rather take it from a stranger than let me help you? Real mature.”

Dean’s goading, needling, because maturity’s got nothing to do with it but it’s a challenge and it’s not like Sam’s ever been able to resist one from his older brother. Dysfunctional, the way they pull and loop over each other like summertime taffy. Stuck together just as surely.

“Well maybe I don’t want to fuck my _brother_ , Dean.” He throws out because it has the predictable effect of making Dean look like Sam slapped him in the face. Right. Like they can pretend they aren’t exactly what they are when they get their hands on each other, case or no case, convenient excuse wrapped for Dean in a bow. Not that his brother backs down.

“You’re the one who said we aren’t brothers any more, Sam. Aren’t _partners_. We’re just working together – ”

“Like that fixes incest.” Snap-fast, give no quarter, fuck Dean and his attempt at technicalities.

And there it is, just the crack in Dean’s armor he was gunning for, and all the empty vindication that comes with it whenever he forces it to appear. Doubt, self-loathing, anxiety, all seeping out and quickly smothered under righteous concern. Wide eyes hiding hurt. Sam’s gut turns vile, nothing to assuage the heat moving its way south through him.

“If it’s – ” Dean exhales, runs a hand through his hair. Sam’s got him on the ropes, all the good in the world it does him. How can he contradict this? “We can call Cas…?”

Sam snorts in genuine surprise. Cas? Really? “An asexual angel?”

“He did it that one time – ”

“When a super hot assassin seduced him when he was essentially _human_. Dude, I’m not asking Cas. Even if he could get here in time, it’d still be – ”

A pause. “Sam?”

He pours himself more whiskey, lets it sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. Doesn’t want to go down this line of speaking at all but his cock is starting to gently throb in his pants and his skin’s too hot, irritation pounding under his skin, for his better judgement to keep up.

“You, Dean. It would still be you. Because Cas would have no idea what he’s doing and you’d tell him what to do and threaten him ten times over about what he’s allowed and not allowed to do and how not to hurt me and how to touch me it would come full circle and even if it was Cas’s hands it would still just be – you. Your hands. You fucking me. All Dean.”

He glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye. His brother’s eyes are wide, a little dilated, lips gently parted. Fuck him.

“Well what d'you expect, me to let him go in blind?”

Good attempt, breathy delivery, 3/10 convincing. Sam chuckles, looks down at his glass. “Right. Because there’s no way I can communicate my wants or boundaries on my own. No way you’d let me out of here to go find someone else – ”

“I’m not – c’mon Sam it’s like I’m gonna – ”

“No, I know.” He doesn’t, not really. “But if I left, drove to town, found a bar – tell me you wouldn’t follow me. Act like some pimp as soon as I caught the guy’s eye, probably follow us out to watch and tell him what to do and pretend like it’s to keep me safe. Just to make sure he knows who I belong to.”

For a second Dean looks like the wind’s been knocked out of him – in the good way. Sam replays his own words in his head and swallows, throat suddenly dry like sandpaper. Because that’s how Dean sees it – Sam’s his, been his since forever, since he was born. Dean’s certainly proved it enough times. Sam’s body is his to stuff angels into, his heart is Dean’s to demand breaking (and how can he pretend otherwise, when he left Amelia, when he left Jessica in the rearview, when - ), Sam’s life is his to buy back at whatever steep price market value is that week.

“Sam.” Just his name, raspy. He shudders. He could punch Dean still, could fight this. Could claw his way out the door and assert his existence as an individual, as more than SamandDean. Could kid himself a little more. And then, to his surprise, “I’m sorry.”

Bullshit, he wants to call. Aches with it. There’s nothing Dean regrets less than the things he’ll do to keep Sam alive, the fallout be damned.

“For what?” he challenges instead. Make Dean name it if he’s gonna lie about it.

“Take your pick.”

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling – vaulted high and it’s such a blessing, even if the doorways are low enough he has to duck in places. Spacious and claustrophobic here underground where the world can't find them.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah.”

The fight is leaving him. It’s a foregone conclusion. He’s hot all over and it’s getting worse, feels the flush seeping down his chest now. He’s horny and irritable and incubus venom is nothing like it was with the siren, not cotton-filling up his brain and making him pliant and desperate. He remembers how Bobby caught him and Dean in the hall sucking face and trying to kill each other at the same time, Dean straddling him and humping even as he crushed the air out of Sam’s lungs and both of them an inch from coming when Bobby killed the siren. Awkward glances all around. ‘Not your fault’ and ‘was the venom’ handed out generously, like the siren would have taken on that form if it weren’t for all this shit that they repress. Bobby was as good at repressing as they used to be.

So it’s not like he’d rather it be anyone other than Dean. It’s not like he didn’t cut his teeth on Dean’s fingers, didn’t drag after him with hands wrapped up in the hem of his big brother’s shirt, didn’t fumble over himself in the dark listening to the slap of Dean’s skin on each girlfriend’s body over on the livingroom couch. And it’s not like they haven’t been here before. It’s not like he didn’t get his lips wet for the first time sucking Dean’s dick that time in Albany when Dean sneezed in ground-up unicorn hair, knees aching on the cold earth and palming himself, not like he didn't give a repeat performance for no other reason than that he wanted to a year later when Dean’s clock was running out. It’s not like there’s never been a spell, a witch, another stumbling block to trip them over these lines whether it’s a kiss or a hand or a hot mouth, and it’s not like they’ve ever pretended it wouldn’t be each other when this happens.

He’s not even sure why he’s fighting, except to punish them both. Amateur mistake, his hot-angry-bruising knuckles. He would ice them but the sting feels good, just a little. And Dean – creeping over him like kudzu and all Sam can do is rage and hurt them both as he is smothered by it. He let Dean in and let Dean take care of him and let him press them skin on skin until he cried Dean’s name like a prayer while he tried to purify himself, and Dean took all that trust and balled it up and jammed a monster down his throat and into his veins and won’t admit that it was wrong.

He finishes the liquid left in his tumbler.

“I’m going to shower first.”

-

The cool water does nothing at all to flag his erection. They have until dawn but it’ll only get worse and he’s not looking forward to that. His skin is cool under the spray but he’s hot underneath still, hot subdermally, like a fever that he can feel just below his outermost layers. His heart's beating just a little too fast. Whiskey gone, the bitter floral taste is crawling up his throat again, more insistent.

He disinfects his knuckles for good measure. The bite of rubbing alcohol used to make his eyes sting, once upon a time, when he was young and Dean was the one to patch him up and kiss it better.

He presses the heel of his palm to his eyes, his forehead, breathes slow and steady against the bile lurching around somewhere inside him. How is this any different than the rest of the trajectory of his life anyway?

When he’s stalled as long as he can, he heads to his room, towel around his waist, and is and isn’t surprised Dean is there waiting. Sam looks away immediately. Dean with the whiskey, sitting on the side of Sam’s bed like he has a right to be there, overshirt unbuttoned and otherwise unrumpled, cool and ready. Sam was only two minutes out of the shower when his chest flushed red again, towel tented in a way he has lost control over.

Control, tight fisted and greedy for it. They play tug-a-war with his body sometimes. Him and demons, and destiny, and angels. His brother too, these days; Dean the keeper while Sam is the kept.

“Gimme some of that.”

Dean hands him two fingers and Sam sucks it back. It helps with the oleander taste, at least.

“How d’you wanna do this?” Dean asks when Sam just stares into the empty glass, unable to take a step closer into Dean’s orbit.

“Pretty sure there’s only one way with incubus venom.”

“Not what I mean.”

He chances looking at Dean, trying to puzzle it out. Dean’s steady gaze isn’t the clue he must think it is, showing signs of irritation after a minute, shifting in his seat and annoyed, grabbing up the other tumbler and moving to pour more. At least they’re in agreement about not doing this sober.

“D’you want it impersonal, Sam?” he bites out after an actual sip this time. Not a swig. Slowing down. Hm. A hard look in his direction and Sam realizes he’s supposed to answer that and he –

He barks out a laugh because what else is he supposed to do? “Does it even matter?”

A look like he’s acting deranged and maybe he should stop laughing, considering his towel is slipping and his skin is going to start getting blotchy with heat. Best not to deprive himself of oxygen while he's at it. A breath, hysteria pushed back, tucked in tight where it belongs.

“Does what I want even matter, Dean?” Harsher than he expected on the heels of that, tighter. Dean flinches, accidental victory.

“Of course it does.” Too quiet, hurt. Fuck. Sam drops the empty tumbler on the desk, runs his hand down his face.

“Dean – ”

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, not really. But his dick is getting insistent and he wants to get this over with and he wants not to have this lump in his throat and wants not to be angry every time he sees his brother and wants not to gag a little at the smell of bleach in the library where he left Kevin’s body.

“Is that really how you feel?”

Fuck. He can’t, he really can’t. He started this and he never should have. Hindsight, checkmark and mate.

He steps over, sidesteps Dean and his widening eyes, and sits on the far side of him, closer to the headboard, feet and knees dangling over the edge of the bed. He drops onto his back, arms akimbo, eyes unseeing on the ceiling. He must look a picture – unravelling towel the only thing covering his indecency, straining up toward the ceiling as sure as his gaze, aching hard and demanding attention. The sun's at least two hours gone below the horizon.

“Sam?”

He swallows, closes his eyes. His chest raises and falls and his nipples are pebbled because the air in here feels cool and soothing on his overheated skin. They crave attention. All of him does. Spoiled and needy for his brother’s affections.

He feels the bed move, and then the air. Tightens his eyes closed and feels the air just over his sternum. Dean’s fingers, not quite touching, not quite not touching.

“Can I… how do you want me to…?”

Choices. Like he could choose Cas, or a stranger, so long as Dean was the guiding force behind their hands and mouths and cocks. Everything he can choose broken down in consideration sets presented by Dean, no opportunity to search for his products elsewhere. Choice architecture but only his brother as architect, narrowing his selection better than any brand or marketer or online designer ever could. A nudge here, a dominated alternative there, and he is on track to purchasing from Dean exactly what he wants to sell him, every time.

“Don’t,” he gathers his breath, “make me choose, Dean.”

A rushed inhale, a precipice, and Dean is there. Mouth on his, steady and demanding. Never, except under the influence, and Dean has no excuses here, no need for this at all, no venom in his veins. Sam opens for it, lets his tongue in, his flavor in. Whiskey and saliva, all Dean. His brother makes a noise deep in his throat and rests his whole weight overtop Sam, his clothing almost too much, too rough under Sam’s prickling fingers where he grips his brother’s arms tight. His jeans catch against the insides of Sam’s thighs where he draws them up on either side, framing Dean, entire body throbbing slow and steady with pulsing heat now that hands are on him.

Dean kisses him breathless, stubble scraping at his skin, teeth raking on his jaw and Sam doesn’t need the foreplay, is harder than he can bear being, but he takes it and arches his neck for Dean’s gently worrying teeth, the way he sucks and licks and Sam is panting for it.

Thumbs rub his nipples and he groans, full-body sound as his head rolls back, his hips roll up.

“Easy, tiger.”

Fuck, he can feel the precome leaking out of his slit, on his back under Dean like so many sparring sessions before. His thumbs have been joined by index fingers, rolling Sam’s nipples with testing tugs and he’s not normally this sensitive there but everything is on fire and he groans again. “Dean,” half with annoyance, impatience.

“I’ve got you, Sammy.”

Mouth on his again, before Sam can get slammed hard into memory, the Trials, Dean and him and a steam-filled shower they could deny later, his brother taking care of him, fingers in his hair and on his dick and milking every drop with whispers of praise and comfort.

When did they get this tangled up together?

Something slips from Dean’s pocket and Sam hears the flip of a cap, the squelch of lube and of course Dean came in here prepared. Or perhaps he helped himself to Sam’s, rifled through his drawers like the rest of his life, no privacy or walls or skin as boundaries between them. He pushes the thought aside as Dean pushes his thigh back, hand on his hamstring, and cool fingers find him there.

The position is tight, is cramped, his leg is going to be unhappy and his hamstring is drawn unpleasant into a stretch. Two fingers press into his insides and he clenches his teeth around the groan. The venom is singing in his veins and his body throbs and clenches around the welcome intrusion, not quite enough.

“Fuck, Sam.” Shaky. He opens his eyes and Dean’s are dark, blown wide and staring down at him, plush lower lip hanging in full. He looks like sex, like the Dean Winchester that all those women see and want, flush on his cheeks and freckles hiding there.

“I want to ride you.”

Dean’s expression blue-screens entirely. His whole jaw is hanging and Sam resists the urge to make a joke about a fly or his face getting stuck that way. He smiles though, first time since he started to feel the thrumming and heat this afternoon.

“Lay back.”

Dean obliges readily, fingers slipped from him gently and then clothes being torn off, almost clumsy. Sam helps, fingers at his belt while Dean strips off his tee and it draws an inhale, eyes on Sam’s hands and it reminds him –

He licks from buckle to navel and Dean lets out “oh sweet cherry pie” as if that isn’t the most endearing thing in the entire world. They work him out of his pants and boxers together, and Sam mouths at him clumsy and unpracticed and Dean’s fingers hesitate over his hair and pat and twitch and so obviously desperately want to tangle themselves in all of Sam’s locks.

He hasn’t done this for Dean in six years. There’s been a handful of deaths and an Apocalypse since then. Has considered it on occasion. Offered, soulless, which went over about as expected. But life and death and Angels and Hell and Trials and women and their own stupid hang ups have kept him from touching, from asking, from even _wanting_.

Dean wants him. Dean _has wanted_ him, bare and unconcealed desire that he tries to choke down so obviously filled with guilt and shame.

Dean has never chosen any of this. Dean has never had any power over him that Sam didn’t give, because Dean would force a monster into his skin sooner than see him die but cannot do anything but stand by every time Sam has ever dug his heels in and demanded that his brother follow or be lost.

On his tongue, Dean tastes like all the power Sam has ever craved, the closest thing to blood he can imagine and he should be afraid at the comparison, how easily he could become addicted. It’s heavy and musky and smells like Dean and like sweat and like home and if that isn’t fucked up then nothing is, but he can’t help but gag himself trying to take more and more and more.

His throat threatens full revolt and he pulls his mouth off with a pop and registers the way that Dean is panting. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his wrist and they both swallow.

“Should I – ” Dean motions with a hand.

“No.” Sam swallows again. He wants it to stretch, to feel it hurt just a little. He shifts to line himself up. It won’t work unless Dean finishes inside him bare and he’s too far gone to be embarrassed about that fact. 

He strokes Dean once, twice. Thicker than him, leans a little to the left, fat head and uncut and familiar in a way it shouldn’t be but is, at this point. The lube is close and he makes Dean slick, lines them up and they both groan at the sweet pressure against his rim.

“So hot, Sammy.”

Not sure if it’s a compliment or a comment on the flush running through his body but –

“Fuck – ” it stretches him once it pops inside, wide and too quick, inches inside already and he stops to breathe, to accommodate, and Dean hisses at the sudden constriction around him, thighs tight under Sam’s with the effort of not moving. Letting Sam lead. He lowers himself to the base, makes himself take it, until he can feel Dean’s pubes and then feel them as flush as possible, tip to root inside of him. It hurts in exactly the way he knew it would, grounding.

“Fuck,” he breathes again, tests his inner walls against the expanse inside him.

They’ve done a lot. They’ve never done this.

Dean’s fingers are a gentle pressure on his thigh, soothing a nervous colt. They breathe together as Sam’s body rearranges itself inside to fit his brother, makes space where none should be possible. It feels like it should come out his throat, it’s so deep in, so wide. It doesn’t though, and he raises himself up and rocks down and watches Dean’s face as he tilts his head back into a moan.

Impersonal, Dean had asked. As if that was possible between them.

He rocks down harder, heat flaring in his chest that feels like anger all over again, presses his palms to either side of Dean’s head on the mattress and sets a pace. Forced eye-contact, Sam’s hair tickling the sides of Dean’s face, Dean’s fingers digging now into his hips, rocking up to meet him.

“Sam.” Croaky, aching. Sam groans and rolls his hips, forces a sound from Dean’s throat, his eyes so dark there’s almost no iris, lidded and unfocused as Sam does it again. “Fuck, Sam.”

Like that. Sam continues the motion, leans deeper over him, kisses him deep and claiming because Dean started it, Dean set the boundaries and he’s allowed. Dean’s fingers staccato under him, hips shift and then Sam feels the steady pull against something inside him, no doubt his prostate and he groans into Dean’s mouth. A building pressure, each pass mounting it, more intense the longer it goes. His cock dribbles, begs for attention and he pulls back from their kiss for air, whole body liquid fire, sweat at each intersection between them and Dean making the same quiet, heavy breaths and grunts that Sam has fantasized about since he first heard them.

It’s heat then, and stolen kisses, and Sam’s hand pressing down on Dean’s chest as he shifts the angle and Dean’s fingers tugging at his nipples and scraping gently up his neck and playing with his lips until Sam lets Dean in there, too. Until he’s sucking Dean’s fingers and has his tongue sliding between them and Dean is swearing and calling him Baby like that isn’t doing all sorts of strange and twisted things up inside his stomach. Dean’s inside him, everywhere, and Sam looks down and Dean rocks up and it’s almost over – Dean’s hips harder and faster and surer and his eyes are widening and dragging back and –

“Fuck, Sammy, baby – ” god, fuck, baby “- so tight so hot so good so fucking – so fucking mine.”

It punches the air out of Sam’s lungs and Dean is coming. Sam’s eyes are wide and he traces Dean’s features, the soft 'o' of his mouth, crease of his brows. He rocks down onto him, traces his lips with his fingers, can’t help it, and Dean groans out a last shudder inside him.

He’s still hot, but the fever is receding. Sam swallows, cock aching and heavy between them. Dean didn’t touch it.

His eyes open, catching Sam’s immediately. Sure, relaxed – happy. Post-orgasmic bliss.

“Hey.”

Sam swallows, still sitting on his dick. The second he moves… “Hey.”

Dean’s fingers trace the muscles on Sam’s thigh, taught still where he’s holding himself. His throat is tight with want.

“Can I?” Fingers treading closer and Sam realizes –

Choices. No axe hanging over him now, no reason or need or venom or –

The fucker. Sam’s exhale is shaky. He closes his eyes, submission. “Please.”

Dean’s grip is hot and sure and perfect. Sam whines in his throat, clenches his fingers into the sheets, still on top of him, still with Dean inside him. Always whining but only when it’s Dean. He rocks himself, clenching and Dean hisses but doesn’t try to escape, corkscrews his wrist and sweeps his thumb over the head, teases the glans and repeats, repeats, root to tip and then fast, tighter grip like Sam likes it and –

He inhales sharp and sudden as it rolls over him, spills in spurts and it’s less of a screaming freight train than it is a wave crashing on the rocks and taking him out soft and boneless to the ocean. There’s so much liquid he worries Dean’s hand is going to get soggy, he’s been hard for so long and needed this so bad. When he finally stops shuddering and starts twitching, oversensitive, Dean pulls his fingers back and Sam pants quietly for a moment.

Then he musters his courage and screws up his eyebrows and pulls off Dean’s cock, clenching against the inevitable squelch and spill.

“Lemme help you with that.” Dean pats his thigh, brotherly as anything, and heads to the sink where Sam’s shaving cloth is sitting. It’s warmed under the hot water tap and Dean touches it between Sam’s legs before Sam takes it, cleans himself as best as he can muster.

He glances up and Dean hesitates, still standing there. Naked.

Jesus, he’s naked. Sam is wrung out, too much to care. He’s seen all of his brother’s skin so many times it might as well be his own, but seldom like this, bare for him, evidence of their indiscretions, so much carefully repressed and tucked away now played out incriminating on their bodies. There’s shame dancing on the edge of Dean’s features, a rare sight but it’s Sam, his baby brother he must pathologically protect, even from himself.

Sam was anxious and irritated for hours and now he is tired, sore from the hunt and from pulling Dean into the recesses of his body, from fighting about things they can’t control. He gives into it, hangs his head.

“I need a shower. Join me.”

No options, no choices. Dean follows him because Sam commanded it. Dean takes the stall next to him because Sam doesn’t invite. Dean hands him a dead-guy robe off the wall when they’re done because Sam forgot his towel in his room, taking care of his needs with a choice that isn’t a choice but at least they can pretend.

“For what it’s worth…” he glances at the mirror, the marks Dean left at the base of his neck, back to his brother. “I don’t regret it either.”

In the reflection, Dean’s look is quizzical, searching. Is Sam talking about tonight, or about months ago in a cabin inside his brain? He’s not ready to forgive, not really. Not to forget. Not to split himself open and hand over the reins when the bleach smell is still fresh in the library, when his hands still shake every time he wakes up in a cold sweat dreaming of metal prongs inside his head, stuffed full of demon and angel together.

He’s not sure what he’s talking about either, anymore. Too tired to decide. He’ll let Dean do that.

“We good?” Dean tests. It’s hesitant, hopeful. Not earned, no apology. But neither of them has power here.

Sam stretches. His knuckles are bruised but scabbed over now, a sure a sign as any that he’s in the clear. He’s going to be sore everywhere tomorrow. He still needs to change his sheets before he can crash.

He turns and cups his brother’s neck, rests his forehead against Dean's. Dean inhales sharp at the sudden movement, surprised. “We’re good. But the next time you trick me, I’m going to eviscerate you.”

His brother laughs soft between them, relaxes into the touch. “Yeah. I can live with that.” A beat. “We don’t have to talk about this, do we?”

Sam hums a little, steps back, feeling stupidly, frustratingly fond. Dean brings out the worst in him. “Let’s not push it.”

Dean’s answering grin is all relief, flooded and easy with it, marching back toward his room for clothes, proclaiming he’ll be coming to steal the whiskey from Sam’s as soon as he’s got pants on. Sam watches him go, heat resettling in to his stomach and chest, entirely unrelated to venom. Optionless is just another way to say inevitable.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an entirely different fic (was going to be a sort of 5+1 of all the different times alluded to here where spells or circumstance made them do it) but just became an exploration of autonomy and inevitably where they're concerned in S9. Will possibly write a companion piece as the 5+1 that leads up to this at some point.
> 
> Gift for lovetincture because watching their recent foray into SPN here and on twitter has helped rekindle some of my own love for it, especially the later seasons (because my love for the first 5 never wanes). 
> 
> **Recommended reading** : Sam's headspace in S9 is explored in incredible depth in [Nigeltde's The Partisan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049891/chapters/4452405) and while that didn't specifically inspire this work, I highly recommend reading it if you enjoy the exploration of Sam and Dean and choice.
> 
> Not beta read and I wrote it and posted it in a single day so all typos are mine.


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